Frank Gruber - The Talking Clock

“Because of what he heard the clock say?” cried Sam.

Johnny threw himself down on the bed. “I wish I knew. I wish I was a cop, too. I could get the answers to a lot of questions that I can’t get now.”

“Such as what?”

“Well, for one thing, I could send a dozen men around to all the phonograph recording places in the city and find out who had a miniature recording disc, made of a gold alloy. And then I could find out a lot of things about the Quisenberrys. Jim Partridge has the edge on us there. He’s got five-six operators working for him.”

Sam sniffed. “A while ago you said you felt like chucking the thing.”

“How the hell can I quit? I know more about this business right now than anyone else, but I don’t know enough. I don’t know the murderer’s name… or what the Talking Clock said at three o’clock the day before yesterday.”

“Nick Bos knows that.”

“But Nick, like the daisies, won’t tell.”

“For my money,” said Sam, “he’s the guy who did it.”

“What? Swiped the clock and returned it? That’d be the same fellow who killed Cornish… and… no, he couldn’t be Old-Timer who was in Minnesota.”

“Why not? Nick’s in pretty good physical shape. He isn’t as much of a sissy as he lets on to be. And he’s got that gang of monkeys working for him.”

“It could be one of them. Or, it could be Jim Partridge, or one of his operators. It could even be Eric Quisenberry. The Rusk girl beat him to Minnesota by auto… But suppose he didn’t go by train, but took a plane? He’d been there in time to get tossed into the clink before we were.”

“But he was the Kid’s old man, Johnny!”

“Fathers have killed their sons, and vice versa. For a lot less sometimes than seventy-five grand. For that matter, I don’t even know if Joe Cornish was away from the estate for a couple of days last week. I guess I could find that out.”

“Why don’t you?”

“What for? Cornish is dead, now. He wouldn’t make a good witness. Mmm, it could have been Bonita who sent Cornish up to Minnesota. And then she knocked him off yesterday because she didn’t want to split with him.”

The telephone on the stand beside Johnny tinkled and he leaned over and picked it up. He said, casually, “Hello,” and then stiffened.

“A Miss Rusk to see you, Mr. Fletcher,” said the voice of the operator.

“Send her up!”

He hung up the receiver and looked at Sam Cragg, a gleam in his eye. “The Rusk kid. This may be interesting.”

Diana Rusk tapped on the door a moment later and Johnny let her in. Her face was drawn and there was a rather frightened look in her eyes.

She was carrying a large object wrapped in brown wrapping paper and tied with a stout cord. It seemed heavy.

She set the package on the dresser.

“How do you do, Miss Rusk,” Johnny said. “Won’t you have a seat?”

She shook her head. “I can’t stay. I just dropped in to… to talk to you. First of all, I want to thank you for sparing me the embarrassment of being questioned in public, by the detective.”

Johnny waved magnanimously and waited for her to go on. His eyes went to the package. It was just about large enough to contain the Talking Clock.

Her sharp, white teeth worried her lower lip. Then she took a deep breath.

“It’s about Mr. Quisenberry. The police — seem to suspect him of…”

“Of killing Joe Cornish? That’s natural. But they haven’t arrested him. And they won’t… for a while.”

“No-no, but they questioned him for hours last night and again this morning. Mother is… worried.”

“I know.” He looked thoughtfully at her. It was apparent that she was having a difficult time of it. He focused his eyes on the package and then she plunged.

“Mother is greatly impressed with you. She said you were the only one to guess about — me and Tom. And then, she heard you the other day when you were selling books. She thinks you’re a wonderful salesman and since we haven’t any money to help Mr. Quisenberry, she thought…”

She turned to the package. “Mr. Quisenberry gave me the Talking Clock. He said it was mine and there was no use holding it from me and we thought, Mother and I, that since that man, Mr. Bos…”

“Ah! You want to sell him the clock?” Johnny’s lips twisted. Her approach was naive, to say the least. The plea for sympathy first, then flattery. “You want me to sell the clock for you?”

She bobbed her head up and down. “Yes, Mr. Bos offered… a very large sum… but we’re not sure he really meant it. It didn’t seem possible.”

Johnny walked to the dresser. “The clock is yours. If you want to sell it, that’s your business. Come, I’ll go down with you to see this Mr. Bos. You wait here, Sam.”

Outside, Johnny hailed a taxicab. They were in it, rolling southward before Diana Rusk finally came out with it. “The clock doesn’t… talk any more…”

Johnny wasn’t too surprised. It had been too much trouble for the thief to have a new record made, so he’d returned the clock without any record.

“It’s broken,” Diana went on, “I mean, it’s not really broken, but that voice disc is missing from it. Will it… make much difference?”

“Oh, no,” said Johnny. “It won’t make any difference. Hardly any at all. He can buy a new disc for a dollar… What time is it? I’ve got a watch, but it’s in a pawnshop in Denver, Colorado.”

She looked at her wrist watch. “Ten minutes to twelve.”

Johnny called to the driver. “Take it easy. We don’t want to get there before twelve.”

He grinned at Diana. “So he’ll have to wait until one o’clock to discover the clock don’t talk. Just as well. He’s heard it talk before, anyway.”

They got to Nicholas Bos’ office at two minutes after twelve. “I’m back,” said Johnny brightly to the girl in the reception office. “I bring a gift to a Greek.”

“The quotation,” the girl said, severely, “is, ‘beware of Greeks bearing gifts.’ I’ll see if Mr. Bos is free.”

He was and when his eyes took in the big package, they began to glow. “What do you having here?” he asked eagerly.

Johnny set the clock on Bos’ desk, picked up a pair of shears and deliberately snipped the cord. Then he peeled off the wrapping paper.

“Behold,” he said, “the Talking Clock. She’s yours, Mr. Nicholas Bos, the greatest treasure in the entire clock collecting world. All yours for a mere seventy-five thousand dollars, plus, ten thousand.”

Bos gave a start. “What you meaning? Seventy-five t’ousand plus… how much?”

“Plus ten thousand. The little bonus you said you’d give me when I found the clock. Remember? I’m knocking off the three hundred that’s really due yet on our expense money.”

“You are crazy!” gasped the clock collector. “You don’t finding the clock. She is not lost…”

Johnny smiled at the Greek, but there was a glint in his eyes. “So, you’re going to renege, are you? Very well…” He reached for the wrapping paper and began pulling it up over the clock. He took his time about it, expecting that Bos would stop him.

Bos remained absolutely quiet. Johnny got the pieces of cord together, knotted them into one piece.

“Sorry, old man,” he said, tightly. “We were giving you first chance at it. We’ve got two other offers…”

Nicholas Bos laughed softly. “How much? Three t’ousand dollars? Five?”

“Ha-ha,” Johnny laughed, humorlessly. “Always the kidder, aren’t you? I can get eighty thousand for this little old clock, any day, any time.”

“In that case, my friend, I withdraw. You may sell to other party.”